Sometimes, I wonder what it would be like to be truly and completely alone. Not just physically, but in the way that makes your own thoughts suffocating. I imagine it as floating in the middle of an ocean during a storm—waves crashing violently, salt stinging my eyes as I search for something, anything, to grasp. But the only thing I can grab onto is a chain, cold and bruising, fastened to both ankles, bricks pulling me down from the other end, heavy with pain, memories, the voice of my mother confirming every bad thought I’ve ever had. The bricks are heavy, but the weight of my thoughts have always been heavier. When I was younger, this storm was my constant reality. I was never physically alone, but I convinced myself that no one could ever truly understand me. I became an island, unreachable and unwilling to be saved. My parents didn’t believe in depression. To them, sadness was something a little fresh air or vitamin D could cure. But I knew the crushing, dense pit in my stomach had always been real. I sought solace in self-destructive habits. I watched my aunt suffer in silence, weighed down by poverty and unimaginable grief. She tried to guide me away from the storm, but instead, I saw her pain as proof that mental illness would weigh me down until I’d eventually drown in it. I stopped eating. At twelve, my straight A’s turned into experimenting with alcohol and sharp objects, listening to angry music that my mother eventually blamed. I gave up hiding how I felt. When COVID happened, the anger I had relied on for so long dissolved into something worse—fear, sadness, apathy. I didn’t bother with friendships or homework. It all seemed so trivial. I’m not sure when, or how, but eventually, the waves settled. The bricks never got lighter, but I got stronger. I learned how to swim with them. I found people who reminded me what it felt like to be seen, to be understood. They didn’t force me to talk or to behave a certain way. I felt like I could breathe. I was introduced to psychology, and for the first time, I not only had the words to express how I felt, but I also understood why I felt that way. I understood that my emotions weren’t just defects but pieces of a mind struggling to cope. Through this, I found a sort of purpose. My experiences with mental illness have shaped every part of who I am. I’ve learned the importance of holding on when everything feels impossible. I now cherish the people who refuse to let me drown. Most importantly, my experiences have given me direction. I don’t want to just understand my pain—I want to use it. I want to help others who feel like I did, to give them some beacon of hope during their own storms. That is why I’ve chosen to pursue mental healthcare. Not because I want to fix people, but because I want to show them what I once needed to see—that even in the darkest waters, there is always a way back to the shore.

I have chosen to pursue healthcare because I want to make a difference. Growing up, I watched my aunt struggle with depression, anxiety, and suicidal thoughts. For her entire adult life, her family fell below the poverty line. She could not afford therapy or any sort of mental health help and, as a result of her financial situation, she felt as though she was unworthy and undeserving of receiving this help, even if she could. Her situation continued to worsen. Eventually, her husband could no longer work due to an injury and they began relying on disability checks to survive and feed their two children. My aunt had always dreamed of having a large family, though it was financially unfeasible and she was struggling to support the two children she already had. Eventually, she got pregnant again and later had a stillborn baby, significantly decreasing her mental health more. She began self-harming and later attempted to take her life multiple times. While she was unsuccessful, watching her struggle with such horrific emotional pain at a young age inspired me to pursue a degree in the mental health field, as I wanted to help people like her. Additionally, there have been multiple instances in which I have been a support to peers and friends who have lost people close to them because of suicide. Seeing how poor mental health affects both those struggling and their friends and family has further encouraged me to go into the field of psychology. However, after taking a few psychology courses in high school, I have discovered that my largest curiosities and passions within psychology lie in abnormal psychology. I have also concluded that psychiatry would be the most sufficient way that I feel I can help people. Thus, I'm currently studying biology with minors in chemistry and psychology to best set me up for medical school, so I can pursue a career in psychiatry. Eventually, I hope to open a clinic in a low-income community to best help people that endure similar situations as my aunt. I have also done research regarding the link between finances and poor mental health. This research has, in short, confirmed a connection between financial instability and suicide that I plan to combat via opening this clinic. While it may be unrealistic to hope to stop one’s financial situation from hindering their ability to receive mental healthcare altogether, I do hope to make a significant difference and allow those who would not typically be able to afford therapy or medication to receive the help they need. My past experiences that have led me to this dream have caused me to evaluate what track would be best for me. Even if I decide to go a different medical route from psychiatry, my main goal is make healthcare accessible to women and minorities who currently would not be able to receive it.

Growing up, I watched my aunt struggle with depression, anxiety, and suicidal thoughts. For her entire adult life, her family fell below the poverty line. She could not afford therapy or any sort of mental health help and, as a result of her financial situation, she felt as though she was unworthy and undeserving of receiving this help, even if she could. Her situation continued to worsen. Eventually, her husband could no longer work due to an injury and they began relying on disability checks to survive and feed their two children. My aunt had always dreamed of having a large family, though it was financially unfeasible and she was struggling to support the two children she already had. Eventually, she got pregnant again and later had a stillborn baby, significantly decreasing her mental health more. She began self-harming and later attempted to take her life multiple times. While she was unsuccessful, watching her struggle with such horrific emotional pain at a young age inspired me to pursue a degree in the mental health field, as I wanted to help people like her. Additionally, there have been multiple instances in which I have been a support to peers and friends who have lost people close to them because of suicide. Seeing how poor mental health affects both those struggling and their friends and family has further encouraged me to go into the field of psychology. However, after taking a few psychology courses in high school, I have discovered that my largest curiosities and passions within psychology lie in abnormal psychology. I have also concluded that psychiatry would be the most sufficient way that I feel I can help people. Thus, I plan to study psychology and pre-medicine, and later psychiatry. After a few years of practice, I hope to open a clinic in a low-income community to best help people that endure similar situations as my aunt. I have also done research regarding the link between finances and poor mental health. This research has, in short, confirmed a connection between financial instability and suicide that I plan to combat via opening this clinic. While it may be unrealistic to hope to stop one’s financial situation from hindering their ability to receive mental healthcare altogether, I do hope to make a significant difference and allow those who would not typically be able to afford therapy or medication to receive the help they need.